


Phoenix

by InNovaFertAnimus



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Prostitution, Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-02-09 07:12:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12882777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InNovaFertAnimus/pseuds/InNovaFertAnimus
Summary: A young man stands there, watching him.He’s about as tall as Napoleon, with pale skin and light hair, but far slimmer. Even in the low light of the streets his shirt leaves little to the imagination. It’s skin-tight and a little too short for him, the hem just shy of revealing a slice of skin.Napoleon doesn’t have to think long to know what he’s doing here.A chance meeting turns Napoleon Solo's life around. He regrets nothing.Written for a kink meme prompt.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Original prompt](https://kinkfromuncle.dreamwidth.org/640.html?thread=976256#cmt976256)  
>     
> Thanks to my awesome beta [canardroublard ](http://canardroublard.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> I just picked this story up again after finishing my last fic. The first two chapters are already on the kinkmeme in an old (and unbetaed) version, but new ones are coming. Updates are probably going to be slow though. 
> 
> Since the content of the fic is rather dark, I'm going to list additional and more specific warnings at the end of each chapter. 
> 
> For anyone wondering, how the sequel to You're A Terrible Cat, Cowboy is coming along, I just got started with it, so you have to wait a little longer.

The noise and laughter of the patrons get cut off as Napoleon lets the door fall shut behind him. He wraps his coat tighter around himself against the wet cold of the docks. Meeting with his ex-comrades, or at least the ones who are back, always ends like this: with *Napoleon stumbling out of a seedy pub in a seedier neighborhood and too drunk to know why he came with them in the first place. He allows himself to drop the act and his smile falls easily. The truth is, he still won’t know why he went with them when he wakes up in the morning. Of course, they had been as close as brothers once, but this is a part of his past to which he can never return. His knee hurts badly enough to pierce through the cloud of alcohol. Napoleon can’t suppress his limp any longer as he stumbles down the street. His physician is going to bite his head off if she finds out he left his cane at home on purpose. 

After barely five minutes his knee gives out. Napoleon is quick enough not to fall, one hand shooting out to brace himself against an old container. With a soft curse he shifts to lean against it properly, lets his head fall back against the rusty metal, and takes a few deep breaths. He only needs to make it a little further to hail a cab. He can do this.

The angle at which he has to lean against the container has made him turn to to look deeper into the docks, down one of the narrow back alleys  
After a minute he lifts his head again, determined to make his way, but stops instantly. His new position leaning against the container makes him look directly into one of the narrow back alleys. A young man stands there, watching him. He’s about as tall as Napoleon, with pale skin and light hair, but far slimmer. Even in the low light of the streets his shirt leaves little to the imagination. It’s skin-tight and a little too short for him, the hem just shy of revealing a slice of skin. Napoleon doesn’t have to think long to know what he’s doing here. Business for prostitutes is always good in this kind of area. Napoleon pushes himself off the container and continues his way. The longer he stays, the higher the chances his presence is going to scare off possible customers and the man looks like he could use a good meal. 

Napoleon forces himself to set one foot in front of the other. Being drunk really doesn’t help his coordination, but he manages to stumble in the direction he wants. His knee stings with every step, but he has his goal in front of him. That is, until he misses to notice the pothole where the asphalt has broken up. The foot of his bad leg catches on its lip. Napoleon keeps his mouth firmly shut to muffle the scream as he falls, his knee hitting the pavement hard. Napoleon stays kneeled over on the ground, trying to breathe through the pain, when he hears light steps approaching. 

Napoleon raises his head to find the young man kneeling next to him, not close enough to be invading Napoleon’s space, but close enough to get a better look at him. His features are even, his eyes a light blue, his pale pink lips looking soft. He’s beautiful, but that’s not what catches Napoleon’s eye. He’s young, younger than Napoleon thought from afar. Probably not even of age. 

The young man, or teen really, looks at him with the kind of caution that one acquires with regular exposure to both verbal and physical violence. Still, he meets Napoleon’s gaze dead on.

“You… hurt?”

His accent is so strong that Napoleon needs a second to understand his words. Something Slavic, with oddly bent vowels and a rolling R. 

Napoleon glances down at his leg. 

“Don’t worry about me, it’s just an old injury acting up, nothing serious.”

The teen looks at him with his blue eyes, clearly not understanding a word Napoleon has said. No English, then. It’s time to brush up Napoleon’s language skills anyway.

“Russian?”

Napoleon is pretty sure his accent in Russian is just as bad as the teen’s in English, but his eyes widen a little, before he nods. Napoleon doesn’t know if he’s relieved or not. He concentrates and hopes the words he strings together make sense. 

“I’m fine, I need to get home.”

The teen glances back over his shoulder. Napoleon subtly follows his gaze. He’s not sure, but he thinks he can make out the silhouette of another man lurking in the shadows, clad in a long coat and a hat. Most likely a pimp. Still the blond teen stays kneeling next to Napoleon. He glances to the side and swallows once. 

“Do you need help to get home?”

Napoleon picks up the innuendo, one of his strong suits in every language, really, but fucking a teenage prostitute with his pimp breathing down his neck is something Napoleon has no desire to experience. Ever. Even so, his leg is hurting rather badly right now. 

“Yes.”

The teen’s face transforms in front of Napoleon’s eyes, the caution replaced by a professional mask as he nods. He stands up and extends a hand towards Napoleon to help him up. His fingers are firm but shockingly cold as they close around Napoleon’s. 

Without a single word the teen slips under Napoleon’s shoulder to help support his weight. Together they walk towards the next busy street in silence. The teen’s shoulders feel bony under his arm, worryingly so, but Napoleon keeps his opinion to himself.

It takes only a few minutes for them to cross the distance and they don’t have to wait for even ten seconds for an empty cab to pull up next to them. Napoleon lets go of the boy at his side and gets out his wallet. The teen watches him in confusion as Napoleon pulls out fifty dollars and sticks it in his hand before he can say anything. Napoleon smiles a little at him. “Thank you for your help.”

Napoleon doesn’t know if it’s the reminder when their fingers brushed together how cold the teen has to be or if it’s just the alcohol coursing through his blood, but he fishes his keys out of his other pocket and shrugs off his coat. The teen still stares uncomprehending at the money in his hands. It’s almost too easy to drape the coat around his shoulders, just a quick swipe of Napoleon’s arms and it’s done. Now the teen looks downright confused at Napoleon’s behavior. It’s a little adorable really. 

Napoleon winks at him once and gets into the cab. “Have a good night.”

He pulls the door shut without giving him time to react. The cabbie drives off the second the door is closed, muttering something about dirty whores. Napoleon cuts him off by giving him his address. He doesn’t look back but when the cab takes the next turn, he can still see a lone figure standing on the sidewalk in a familiar coat.

***

It’s a typical week. A few days at work, counseling, physical therapy and hanging out with Gaby. Since her uncle lives in the same building as him and he’s working for her adopted father, they see each other a lot. Of course Napoleon tells Gaby about his short encounter with the Russian prostitute at the docks, but there is little to tell. He even starts to sketch him for her, but Gaby laughs and tells him he must have been way more intoxicated than he admits, because no prostitute who still needs to roam the docks looks like that. Napoleon pouts a little, but lets her be. She’s basically his only friend, who doesn’t necessarily end up talking about past missions and who died when and where, which probably makes her his best friend as well. He’s aware that Gaby uses him to buy alcohol, but Napoleon knows better than to give her more than one beer at a time (after asking her foster father, of course, he likes his job and his face the way it is just fine). This usually prompts their endless argument about how Gaby is a eighteen-year-old German and the German law allows her to buy beer and wine at 16 and hard liquor at her age. Napoleon always likes to point out that she’s not in Germany anymore, before he gets the you’re-a-honorably-discharged-veteran-at-twenty-two-with-a-ridiculous-amount-of-money-live-a-little speech.

He can’t say that he doesn’t like those speeches, they are highly amusing, but some days it just reminds him that she doesn’t completely get him. That’s fine as well, because he really doesn’t want Gaby to know what it feels like to watch friends die left and right, to get your knee shattered while your captors laugh at your screams, to have electric currents running through your body until you smell your own flesh searing. But that’s what counseling is for. Gaby is for gossiping, leisure movie nights and terrible pizza on the weekends and unexpected visits and stealing Napoleon’s cooking during the rest of the week. And if she just sits with him on bad days, lets his shoulder lean against hers when he feels like he’s floating away, he gladly takes the comfort her company offers. 

So although his week is ordinary, he still feels restless. He draws icy landscapes in shades of light blue, which Gaby steals for her room as soon as he’s done. He goes through physical therapy, not really listening to the angry rant about overexertion, but hearing two words of heavily accented English in his head. Working at the gallery he catches himself looking out for blond teenagers in black coats. His Russian copy of War and Peace is his constant companion at home, hand in hand with a dictionary and a grammar book. He listens to the weather report and wonders if the teen’s fingers are still cold. He didn’t even ask for his name. It drives him crazy. 

He’s sitting at his table, the remains of their greasy pizza in front of him after seeing Gaby out. He glances at the clock hanging over his fridge. It’s not even that late, because the film they chose was too terrible to watch to the end. He busies himself with putting away the leftovers and doing the dishes, but after ten minutes he’s back at the table, looking at the clock again. It’s Saturday, so he doesn’t have to get up in the morning. 

Napoleon knows this is probably a really bad idea, but he gets up and walks to his apartment door. He dons his brand-new coat, grabs his wallet and keys and, with some displeasure, his cane. Using the lift he’s down on street level by the time he has buttoned up his coat.

Needing a cane to walk on unfairly doesn’t make hailing cabs easier, but he manages after walking down the street for a few minutes. It’s not a that long ride to the docks and what felt like a thousand miles last week is now barely a five minute walk. Maybe Gaby was right and he was more intoxicated than he thought. He enters the pub and goes straight to the bar, claiming one of the stools and ordering a beer. 

The pub is rather empty compared to the last time he’s been here, but still just as seedy. He’s glad he won’t stay here for long, or he would have to ask the barkeeper for something stronger. 

The barkeeper sets his beer down in front of Napoleon and studies his face for a moment. “You were with the bunch of soldiers last week.”

Napoleon takes a small sip, fights not to grimace at the taste and nods. “Yes I was. Are you the owner?”

“Yeah, I am.” The barkeeper starts to dry off some glasses, but stays standing right in front of Napoleon.

“So I guess you know the area better than most.”

That earns him a bark of laughter. The barkeeper sets the glass in his hands down and leans on the counter. “Better than I would like to. Just ask what you came to ask for. You and I both know you don’t belong here.”

Napoleon grins in return. “That obvious?”

The barkeeper rolls his eyes. “Boy, you’re wearing cologne instead of old sweat. Not that I complain. So?”

Napoleon throws a quick glance to his side. Nobody seems to be listening anyway. “Do you know a young man working the streets around here? About as tall as me, skinny, blond, Russian?”

The barkeeper narrows his eyes at Napoleon. “Huh, wouldn’t have pegged you as a fag.” 

Napoleon doesn’t let his smile slip, although it takes some effort. He would like to correct the man out of spite, that in fact he’s not gay, he’s bisexual, and it’s nobody’s business but his. 

“So do you know him?”

The barkeeper grabs another glass to dry. “Yeah, he’s one of Oleg’s boys, been here for maybe a month. He’s usually in one of the back alleys around here. Just to let you know, you’re not the first one asking about him. The kid’s been busy.”

Napoleon can imagine. Gaby was right with what she said. No prostitute who looks like that still roams the docks. Unless someone keeps them there. 

“Thank you for helping me out, then.” Napoleon doesn’t bother finishing his beer, pulls out a few dollar notes and stands up. Nobody pays attention to him as he walks out. Quickly glancing around, Napoleon decides to take the exact same route he took a week ago and hope for the best. 

He’s halfway back on the street where he came from when he sees a middle-aged man practically running from an alley, looking flustered and zipping himself up. Napoleon slows his steps, giving the man the chance to escape. He stops at the alley the man emerged from and there he is, counting money and wiping his mouth. Napoleon should have brought a bottle of water for him. Or something warm to drink, because he isn’t wearing Napoleon’s coat, or any coat at that.

Napoleon doesn’t know what gives him away, but the teen all but jerks his head up and stares straight at Napoleon. 

Napoleon smiles a little at him, but chances are he can’t see that in the dim light. He hopes that Russian comes easier to him now that he’s sober and polished his skills a little. “Hello there.”

The teen stares at him some more before quickly taking a few steps back. Napoleon frowns as he watches him pull out a plastic bag from behind some forgotten dumpster. His steps are light, just as they were the last time they met, when he finally walks towards Napoleon. He holds the bag out for Napoleon to take, but Napoleon keeps one hand on his cane and the other in his pocket. 

“What is that?”

The teen shrugs. “Your coat and your money. I figured you would come to get them back.”

Napoleon shakes his head. “This is not why I’m here. Keep them.”

He’s not sure, but he thinks he can see the teen’s face fall a little. “So you’re here for me?”

Truth is, Napoleon doesn’t really know why he’s here. He’s about to say so when another voice cuts him off.

“Why am I not surprised to find you here chatting up whores, Solo? Birds of a feather, I guess.”

Napoleon freezes for a second before he turns around. He didn’t even know Sanders was back in town. 

The other man lets his gaze wander down to Napoleon’s cane, taking in the way he doesn’t put weight on his bad leg. He snorts dismissively. “I heard they crippled you. Good, now people don’t need to look twice to see how pathetic you are.”

Napoleon fights to stay calm. This is the first time he has seen the man after he was discharged. There’s an odd mix of emotions running through him. Anger mostly, embarrassment because he’s right, he’s a cripple, and a distant fear. 

“Why are you here, Sanders?”

The man chuckles. “I’m here for a little fun. Oleg told me about his new boy. He’s got quite a reputation already.”

That Sanders knows this kind of people doesn’t surprise Napoleon in the slightest. The man has always been scum. 

Sanders leans a little to the side to look behind Napoleon, who hadn’t even notice that he basically put himself between the man and the teen. Just the way Sanders’ eyes roam over the teen’s body makes Napoleon want to knock the man’s teeth out. 

“He said he’s still tight, still cries easily. You gotta enjoy that while you can.”

Napoleon grips his cane tighter. “With all due respect, sir, you make me sick.”

Sanders huffs out a laugh. “What else would you do with him? Or would you like me to show you how a real man fucks?”

Maybe knocking his teeth out is not enough. Napoleon is only a second away from jumping at the other man’s throat when he hears another set of steps approach, the sound coming out of the alley. Napoleon turns around again to find another man standing behind then teen. He’s wearing a hat and a well-tailored coat. His eyes are unnerving, almost black and bare of any emotion. He lays one patronizing hand on the teen’s shoulder and nods towards Sanders. This would be Oleg, then. His English has a similar, if not a quite as strong accent as the teen’s to it. 

“Is there a problem here?”

Napoleon covers his rage with one of his false smiles. “Oh no, but I’m afraid Mr. Sanders is unable to wait for his turn.”

He glances to the teen, standing unnaturally still under Oleg’s hand on his shoulder. Although he probably didn’t understand a word they said, their tones and body language were more than enough to get the gist of it. 

Oleg looks at Sanders now, his eyes oddly calm. Sanders snorts. “Well, while Mr. Solo here obviously just wants to chat with your boy, I’m a paying customer. The cripple can’t get it up anyway.”

Napoleon grits his teeth as Oleg takes his hand off the teens shoulder and motions for Sanders to step forward. The teen glances briefly at Napoleon, but doesn’t move as Sanders walks around Napoleon and steps in close. As Sanders takes the teen’s face in his hand and turns his head from one side to another, Napoleon makes a decision. He pulls out his wallet and draws out the stack of notes he keeps folded at the back. Practically drawn to the money, Oleg’s gaze is on him instantly. 

“I wasn’t aware of the high demand or I would have made my intentions clearer.” He motions down at his leg with his wallet still in his hands, the dollar notes sticking out between the leather and his fingers. “As you can imagine, my condition doesn’t allow me to stay upright too long and neither the walls nor the floor seem comfortable.”

Oleg takes a step forward and pushes Sanders back a little, forcing him to let go of the teen. Confused blue eyes land on Napoleon, but Oleg’s hand landing on his shoulder makes him lower his gaze again.

Napoleon shoots Sanders a smug look before turning his attention back to Oleg. 

“I want him the whole night. I’ll give you two hundred now and another three hundred when he gets back in the morning.”

Oleg lets his gaze rest on the money, then he gives the teen a little shove in Napoleon’s direction. The teen slowly walks towards Napoleon, takes the money out of his hand and brings it to Oleg before returning to Napoleon’s side. Sanders gets ready to argue, but just one glance from Oleg shuts him up. With barely concealed anger he pushes past them, his shoulder bumping against Napoleon’s. 

“Don’t think we’re finished here.”

Napoleon tries his best not to react, but he can feel himself tense. It’s irrational, he knows that, but that doesn’t make it easier.

Oleg silently counts the money in his hands before pocketing it and walks off in the other direction. Which leaves Napoleon standing in the alley with a very confused blond Russian. 

Napoleon exhales deeply, suddenly very tired. He takes a second to process what he’s just done, but he knows it was the right thing. 

The teen still looks curiously at him. Napoleon sighs once again. First things first. “What’s your name?”

“Illya.” From the way he instantly clamps his mouth shut after the name slipped out, Napoleon guesses it’s his real name. Napoleon tries to smile reassuringly. “Alright, Illya, my name is Napoleon Solo, but please call me just ‘Solo’. We’re going to leave now.” He points at the plastic bag now leaning against the dirty walls. “But first put on the coat, please, it’s cold.”

After a moment’s hesitation Illya does as he says and follows him out of the alley. The coat is the right length for him, but still looks too big on his lean frame. It’s almost like the week before. They walk next to each other in silence until they hit the street. Napoleon feels Illya’s eyes on his cane and his leg, but he doesn’t try to strike up a conversation, and neither does Napoleon. Napoleon flags down a cab and gets in. Instead of leaving Illya like last week, he scoots over and motions for the teen to join him. Carefully, Illya slides in next to him, while Napoleon gives the cabbie his address.

Illya looks out of the window as they take off, then he turns to Napoleon. “Where are we going?”

“To my place.”

Illya hums and looks out the window for the rest of their ride. 

By the time they arrive at Napoleon’s building, Illya’s face is absolutely blank, but his eyes look tired. Illya obediently follows him into the elevator and into his apartment. He takes his shoes off when Napoleon asks him to. He doesn’t have any socks. Again, Napoleon asks himself how he’s going to deal with this situation. 

Illya doesn’t look around, he only follows Napoleon into the living room with his head slightly down. Napoleon points at the table where he sat with Gaby just a few hours back. It feels like days ago. 

“Would you like to sit down?” 

Wordlessly Illya pulls out a chair and sits down. Napoleon gets the feeling that it doesn’t matter how he poses a question, Illya will just comply. That will probably make everything easier, although Napoleon hates thinking like that. Napoleon leans his cane against the table.

“Wait here, please. I’ll just be a minute.”

When Napoleon does come back with the warmed up leftovers from earlier and sets the plate down in front of him, Illya finally looks up. 

“What are you doing?”

Napoleon fights the urge to roll his eyes. “Feeding you, obviously.”

Illya frowns. “I don’t need to be fed.”

“I beg to differ. Now eat, unless you’re allergic or vegan or something.”

Illya still frowns at him for a second, but eventually picks up one slice of pizza and pointedly takes a bite. Napoleon takes a chair and opposite of the table and watches him. Just as he thought Illya’s restrain crumbles a little more with every bite. He’s still not a messy eater or anything, but there’s a distinct urgency with which he eats. Napoleon gets up when there’s only one slice left. His movement makes Illya hesitate to take the last piece, but Napoleon waves him on. He’s back with a sandwich right in time to see Illya swallowing the last bite and sets the plate down right on top of the now empty one. Illya looks at him curiously again, but takes it up without protest. He barely needs five minutes to eat up. 

“Still hungry?”

Illya looks at him, probably just short of denying he ever was, but then he averts his eyes and shakes his head. 

“Good. Then I want you to take a shower. The bathroom is down the hall on the right side. Body wash and everything is already in the shower, clean towels are on top of the shelf right next to it. There should be a new toothbrush as well. If you can’t find it, just call me.”

Illya nods dutifully and leaves the living room. Napoleon collects the plates and dumps them in the sink before walking into his bedroom to get his spare pillow and blanket. He halts for a second in front of the bathroom door. It’s slightly ajar, steam from the shower issuing from the gap. Without much thought Napoleon pulls it shut and walks on. He gets sheets, a pillow, a blanket and some pajamas he finds at the bottom of his dresser. On his way back into the living room he starts limping again. 

His couch is comfortable and long enough to make a decent bed for a night, so he gets everything ready, then grabs his cane and gets himself some ice for his knee. 

He settles down at the table again, using another chair to prop up his leg. With a little flinch he drops the ice he wrapped in a towel on his knee and leans back while holding it in place. His knee has barely begun to feel numb with the cold, when he hears the water turn off. Not even a minute later the living room door opens.

Illya slowly walks in, wearing only a towel around his hips, still dripping wet. His steps are silent but not hesitant. His eyes flash blue through his thick lashes as he lowers his head slightly. Napoleon might buy the seduction act, if he didn’t notice the slight shaking in Illya’s fingers or the tension in his shoulders. Now, with his body on almost full display, Napoleon can see that Illya isn’t just skinny, he’s definitely underweight. Sex has never been so far from his mind as in this moment. 

“How old are you, Illya?”

Illya’s steps falter. For a second he frowns before he catches himself. “I’m twenty-one.”

“No, you’re not. Try again.” 

Now Illya stops walking towards him and glares. It might have been an impressive glare if Illya didn’t look like Napoleon could break him in half. Napoleon holds his gaze easily and raises an eyebrow. There are another few seconds of silence between them, before Illya snorts and crosses his arms in front of his naked chest. 

“You paid, why do you bother?”

“You said it. I paid, so answer the question.”

Another glare. “I’m turning eighteen.”

“When do you turn eighteen?”

Napoleon doesn’t miss the way Illya quickly glances to the side. He’s still contemplating what he can get away with. Napoleon has had enough of that. He’s tired and his knee aches and his patience is running thin.

“I want to hear an exact number. Now.”

The teen flinches a little at Napoleon’s tone and Napoleon is almost apologizing for that when Illya finally averts his gaze. His fingers dig into his arms.

“Twenty-one.”

For a second Napoleon wants to shout at him, that he is definitely not twenty-one, but then it dawns on him. 

“Twenty-one what?”

Illya grits his teeth.

“Months.”

Napoleon can barely stop himself from parroting that. Illya turns eighteen in twenty-one months. That makes him sixteen. Napoleon can’t hold back a groan and buries his face in his hands. There’s a sixteen year old Russian prostitute with little to no English skills standing in a towel in front of him. Sixteen. Yes, Napoleon’s been to war and back and has seen his fair share of the world, but he really doesn’t feel old enough to handle this. He’s only six years older than Illya. Six years ago he was still in school, thinking about studying art, and his mother was still alive. That thought makes Napoleon wonder where Illya’s family is and if they know. 

“I can leave now, if you want me to.”

Napoleon lowers his hands again at the quiet words. Illya looks at him defiantly, but his shoulders are slightly slumped. Napoleon sighs. Like he would throw a freaking child out on the street in the middle of the night to walk back to his pimp.

“No, you are going to stay here.” 

Illya nods and is about to approach Napoleon again, but Napoleon interrupts him.

“And by ‘here’ I mean on the couch. I left pajamas for you.”

The confusion is back as Illya slowly turns around to the couch. 

“Pajamas?”

Napoleon sighs and rubs his eyes. “Yes, pajamas. It’s too late for you to still be up.”

That earns him another glare. “I’m not a child you need to put to bed.”

Napoleon looks back, unimpressed. “It’s even too late for me to be up, so do us all a favor and go to bed.”

Illya stays where he is, his arms still crossed over his chest. If Napoleon weren’t so tired, he would probably appreciate the fact that Illya is not nearly as docile as he first appeared to be. But Napoleon _is_ tired.

“Fine, have it your way. I’m going to bed right now. If you want to stay up all night and stare at the walls, I won’t hold you back.”

Napoleon takes the ice off his knee and grabs his cane. Illya watches silently as he gets up and walks past him. Napoleon is about to close the door behind him when he hears Illya’s voice again.

“I could just go.”

Napoleon turns his head to look over his shoulder at the teen. “Sure, but I said you would come back in the morning with another three hundred dollars.”

“I could steal it from you.”

Napoleon can’t help but grin a little at that. “I think the only things in peril are the contents of my fridge. I was a thief, I know one when I see one. And you haven’t stolen anything in your life.” 

Illya’s glare intensifies, which tells Napoleon he’s right. He chuckles silently and turns away again. “Good night, Peril.” He doesn’t wait for an answer and pulls the door shut instantly. 

He only notices when he’s already lying in his bed that his knee doesn’t hurt anymore.

***

His alarm isn’t any more pleasant than slap to his face and Napoleon contemplates throwing the whole thing against the wall. It’s Sunday, why did he set an alarm? He’s about to drop off again when he remembers last night. And his guest. Napoleon snaps fully awake at that thought.

His knee usually doesn’t act up after a night of good sleep for a few hours, so he leaves his cane next to his bed and walks as silently as possible down the hall to the living room. The door opens quietly. 

There’s light streaming in from the windows, making the room look fuzzy and soft. 

Illya is curled up in a tight ball on the couch, the blanket pulled up to his nose. The morning light catches in his long lashes and makes them shine golden. He’s without doubt beautiful, but now without his angry glares and pretenses, he looks so young it hurts. 

Napoleon is extra careful not to wake him as he slips past him into the kitchen. After a glance in the fridge he decides on making pancakes. Although he only wears his sleeping clothes he puts on one of the aprons hanging behind the door. It’s the western-themed one, Gaby’s last Christmas present for him. Napoleon’s usual breakfast is nothing more than two cups of coffee, unless Gaby comes over and demands a feast. She does that often enough, so he really doesn’t need to put much thought into making the batter. The first batch is sizzling in the two pans he put out in no time. 

“What are you doing?”

Napoleon flinches so hard that he almost drops the spatula in his hand. When he turns around, Illya stands a few feet behind him. He’s already in his own clothes again, a too tight shirt and some dark jeans, which both have seen better days. Looks like Napoleon isn’t the only one graced with the ability to walk around without a sound. 

“Making breakfast. Good morning to you, too.”

The teen is probably getting ready to argue again, but Napoleon cuts him off. “Set the table, please, everything is in the cupboard to your left.”

“No.”

Napoleon switches off the heat, before he turns around with a raised eyebrow. 

Illya’s arms are again crossed in front of his chest. There’s a tight-lipped, icy smile on his face, which no sixteen-year-old should be able to manage. He briefly glances down at Napoleon and the corner of his mouth twitches. 

“I don’t need charity, Cowboy.”

“Breakfast isn’t charity.”

Illya snorts. “I’m leaving.”

Before Napoleon can say anything, the teen storms out of the kitchen. Napoleon has to actually run a few steps to catch up to him. His knee protests painfully, but he manages to reach Illya before he’s out the door. The teen is about to open the apartment door, when Napoleon blocks him by pushing it shut again. Despite Napoleon’s injury, he has no trouble keeping the door closed as Illya tries to pull it open again. 

Finally Illya lets go to glare at Napoleon some more. Now that he’s well rested and fully closed, Napoleon has to admit it is intimidating, surprisingly so coming from a half-starved teenager. Napoleon raises his hands in surrender. 

“I won’t stop you, but you forgot your money. Three hundred dollars, remember?” 

Illya grits his teeth, eyeing the front door again. Napoleon slowly takes a step back. 

“There’s a difference between taking charity and stupidity.”

The teen stares at the door for another few moments before he finally nods. Napoleon sighs in relief. “Alright, let me just get the money and you can go.”

His short sprint was apparently more straining than he thought. His knee aches now with every step and Napoleon has to bring his cane to the door when he hands Illya the money. 

Illya doesn’t even count it before shoving it into his pockets. Without another glance back, he opens the door. 

“One more thing.”

Illya turns back, not quite glaring again, but not far away from it either. Napoleon draws out another two hundred dollars.

“I want you to do something for me.”

Illya looks at the money in his hands, then up at Napoleon’s face again. “You already paid me for the night.”

Napoleon shakes his head. “This isn’t about last night or now. Do you remember the man talking to me? Sanders?”

Illya nods shortly.

“Good. I want you to stay away from him.”

Illya snorts. “Is this some kind of a pissing contest between you two?” 

God, Napoleon wishes it was.

“I’m serious. If he ever approaches you, turn him down, or better yet avoid him altogether. He’s bad news.”

Illya looks at him strangely, half annoyed and half curious. “I can’t afford to be picky.”

“Then I’ll pay.” Napoleon doesn’t even know at this point why he’s so engaged in all this, but the thought of Sanders touching Illya makes him want to throw up. “Everything you lose through Sanders, I’ll pay you back.”

Finally, Napoleon’s insistence seems to get through to Illya. “Tell me why and I’ll consider it.”

Napoleon hesitates briefly. He hates even thinking about this, let alone talking. He takes a deep breath, sorting his thoughts so he won’t slip back, keeping the memories at bay. He only needs the barest minimum, just so that Illya complies. No details, only what happened, not how. 

“He’s responsible for this.” Napoleon waves his hand vaguely down his leg. “I threatened him and he made an example of me.”

Illya just looks at him for a second, then takes the extra two hundred dollars and turns to leave. Before he has the chance to close the door after him, Napoleon holds it open. 

“You forgot your jacket.”

Illya rolls his eyes, but doesn’t protest, when Napoleon drops the coat in his hands. Just a moment later the teen has disappeared down the stairs. 

Napoleon closes the door silently after him. With a small sigh he hobbles back into the kitchen, where a pair of half-done pancakes and a full bowl of batter wait for him. Not in the mood of throwing them away, he grabs his phone and dials Gaby’s number. A feast it is, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for:
> 
> teenage prostitution, therefore (non-graphic) ungerage sex and dub-con/non-con, child abuse, implied PTSD, hypervigilance, referenced torture, references to war, permanent injury, chronic pain, some strong language


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said updates are gonna be slow? I'm sorry haha  
> As usual specific warnings in the endnotes.

Gaby freezes with her fork hovering in front of her mouth. 

“You did _what_?”

“I said, I went to the docks last night. You know my doctor said I should take walks from time to time.”

Gaby just stares at him. “Tell me this isn’t about that teen prostitute from the other night.”

Napoleon tries his most dazzling smile. Damn it, she knows him too well. “This isn’t about that teen prostitute from the other night.”

“Liar.”

With a sigh Napoleon gives up. He doesn’t even know why he tried to fool Gaby in the first place. “Fine, it just wouldn’t leave me alone, so I went back to see him.”

“And?”

Napoleon tries not to hunch in on himself under Gaby’s stare. 

“And I might or might not have brought him home with me?”

Gaby’s stare only intensifies. 

“You can’t be serious.”

Napoleon brings up his hands in defense. “I didn’t touch him or anything, I swear.”

Gaby shakes her head. “I know. You’re just an idiot, not a creep. Still, it’s not like you’re in any condition to get yourself involved in even more messes and you know that. Why did you bring him here?”

Sometimes Napoleon hates Gaby for always knowing where to dig deeper. 

“Sanders.”

Gaby’s eyes widen a little. “As in Sanders, your former CO?”

Napoleon nods. “He turned up out of the blue. I couldn’t leave Illya with him, so I brought him here.”

Her face softens as she nods in understanding. “Illya? That’s his name?”

“Yes.” Napoleon runs a hand through his hair and leans back. “He’s only sixteen, Gaby. His pimp doesn’t give a damn how he’s treated and takes the money. He’s so thin it hurts to look at him.” He looks down at his breakfast, not hungry anymore. “He doesn’t even speak English.”

“And you don’t know what to do.”

That’s pretty much it, isn’t it? It’s not like he can force Illya to stop doing what he does. It’s not right, he knows that and Illya knows that, but then again he knows nothing about Illya, how he came here, if there’s a reason for him staying with Oleg and in this seedy business. And while Napoleon would gladly empty all his bank accounts to rent Illya night after night, making him eat and sleep like a teenager should be eating and sleeping, he knows that Illya will turn him down the next time Napoleon shows up. Still, Napoleon plans to set a few things up. Not much really, but enough to make Illya a little comfortable if he ever came back here. His own pajamas, a new toothbrush instead of the cheap disposable ones, a second comforter and some granola bars to take with him in the morning. Not that Napoleon thinks that Illya might spend another night here, but there’s no harm in being prepared. In fact, Illya might not even show up for the money Napoleon promised. And Napoleon can’t really blame him. If his pride was all that he had left, he would defend it with his life as well. He only hopes that Illya will stay away from Sanders the same way Illya stays away from Napoleon.

Gaby sighs and leans back as well, her arms crossed in front of her chest.

“He’s sixteen, right? You could alert child services or something.”

“Already thought about it, but I doubt he will let them help him. I don’t even think he came here legally and I don’t know how that would affect the whole ordeal.”

“Well, shit.”

“You said it.”

Gaby offers him a soft but sad smile. “You know, you can’t save everybody. And if Illya won’t accept help, there’s nothing you can do.”

“I know.”

With nothing else to say they both start picking at their breakfast again. When Gaby leaves there’s enough food left for her to take some leftovers with her for the first time since they have been having breakfast together.

***

A few weeks pass and as Napoleon expected, Illya doesn’t turn up at his apartment even once. On some nights Napoleon can’t help himself and takes a stroll along the docks, but he can’t spot him there either. He doesn’t know if Illya is just avoiding him or something happened to him. He gives up hoping after two weeks, but he doesn’t stop worrying. He tries to, but he finds that he literally can’t. He talks about Illya in his private sessions and his counselor tells him it’s perfectly normal to feel this way, having seemingly irrational setbacks is normal, recovery is not a linear progress, but knowing that doesn’t really help Napoleon. He starts to lose sleep over it. It’s not only trouble with falling asleep in the first place, but waking at every creak in the neighborhood. He has suffered through periods of hypervigilance before, so he knows what’s in store for him. There’s still the deadbolt on the inside of his bedroom from his last round of paranoia and he fights himself every night not to lock himself in. He can’t hide the signs from Gaby, the way he can’t seem to relax although he’s tired all the time. She knows, but she doesn’t say anything about it, even when Napoleon gets up from the couch during their movie night for the tenth time with a flimsy excuse to check this room or the other, and Napoleon is glad. He needs something normal to hold on to, something that doesn’t remind him of his own problems. It gets worse to the point where Waverly takes one look at him and sends him right back home from work, despite Napoleon looking as impeccable as ever. Napoleon calls Gaby before he even makes it out the building and just barely refrains from shouting at her for ratting him out. To his surprise she’s already waiting for him at his apartment with all the Star Wars films ready and hot chocolate already made. He regrets a little giving her his spare keys when he’s ushered to his living room and gets wrapped in a blanket like a child. Still, he drinks his hot chocolate without protest and doesn’t resist as Gaby makes him lie down on the couch, his head propped up in her lap. To his shame he doesn’t even make it through one movie before nodding off.

He can’t explain why a single person he doesn’t even know can throw him off the rails like that. Gaby just shrugs as he tells her about this. “People are thrown back by stranger things than saving a teenager from the man who destroyed their life.” And while hearing that doesn’t exactly help Napoleon to sleep through the night, he can accept that. Waverly makes him call in sick for two weeks with a note and tells him that if that’s not enough he should take his time. They both know (although Napoleon doesn’t know how Waverly knows, but the man always has his ways), that Napoleon doesn’t need the job for the money, but he needs a purpose, something he likes to do, a place he can come back to. 

It’s three twenty-seven in the morning when Napoleon wakes up again. He doesn’t know what caused it and somehow that’s worse than a window falling shut or sound of rain on the roof. Napoleon is fighting the urge to get up and patrol through his apartment when he hears it again: A faint knocking on his apartment door. Silently he gets up and grabs his robe to put over his pajamas. He contemplates getting something to defend himself, but decides against it. The knocking was so deliberately silent that nobody would have woken up from it under normal circumstances. Who would knock on a door like that, if they really want someone to answer?

With a twist of his wrist Napoleon unlocks the door. He freezes just a moment after that.

In front of him stands Illya. There’s a wound on his temple bleeding freely. His shirt is torn. What Napoleon can see through the rips is nothing but a mesh of bruises and scratches. Without thinking Napoleon reaches out. Even before he actually touches him, Illya flinches back as if he’s been burned, his arms coming up in front of him. Napoleon flinches back almost as violently. He watches as Illya slowly lets his hands sink to his sides again in a way that can’t hide how every movement seems to hurt. There are abrasions around his wrists as well. Illya swallows once and meets Napoleon’s gaze. There is nothing left of his glare. 

“I tried, I-” He starts to tremble. “I really tried.” 

There’s a hitch in his breath which makes Napoleon snap out of his stupor. He fights the urge to reach out again, instead he takes a step back, leaving Illya more space. 

“Why don’t you come in?” He surprises himself with how calm he sounds.

Illya looks hesitant, or rather frightened, which makes Napoleon want to break something. Or rather someone. “I won’t hurt you, Illya please.” 

Illya just looks at him with wide blue eyes, hands balled to fists to stop the shaking. After a moment he closes them, a single tear slipping out and mixing with the bloody tracks on the side of his face as he nods slightly. 

He’s barely stumbled through the door when his legs give out. Napoleon shoots forward to catch him before he sinks to the ground. Illya still flinches violently as Napoleon wraps his arm around him, but he doesn’t fight back. Napoleon’s knee screams in protest at the additional weight, but Napoleon pays no attention to it. Slowly, they make it down the short stretch of the hall to the bathroom. 

Napoleon carefully lowers Illya to sit on the edge of the tub. He barely dares to take his eyes off him to fill the basin with warm water and grab a clean towel. Wetting a corner of it, he turns back around to Illya, who sits where Napoleon left him, hunched over himself and still trembling. 

“Can you raise your head a little?” Illya complies, but doesn’t look at him. Carefully, Napoleon starts to clean the blood off Illya’s face. There are two nasty cuts, forming the tip of an arrow pointing at Illya’s eye. He doesn’t need to be a doctor to know that it will scar. 

There’s a deep pit in Napoleon’s stomach, as he opens his mouth again. A part of him doesn’t want to ask, but Napoleon needs to know. 

“What happened?”

Illya blinks a couple of times, probably holding back tears. “I tried, but -- You can have your money back, I- I just need to –“ His words are cut off when he swallows something that sounds suspiciously like a sob. Napoleon would like to tell him that he can let go now, but that’s not what he can focus on in this moment. There’s an idea tugging at him and he hopes he’s wrong. 

“Why should you give me money?”

Illya’s hands are practically clawing at his knees. 

“I- I was avoiding him, the man you told me about.”

Everything in Napoleon screams no, no, no, but still he nods at Illya to continue.

Illya draws a shaky breath. “Oleg set me up, told me to meet someone, I didn’t know it was him.” 

He looks at Napoleon with wide eyes, as if he expects Napoleon to do something to him for not holding up his part of the deal. Even if Napoleon wanted to, he wouldn’t be able to move. His heart is going a mile a minute, pounding so loud in his ears that he can barely hear Illya’s whispered words. 

“I tried to turn him down, he wouldn’t go. I said no, he- he didn’t care.”

For a second Napoleon thinks he’s going to be sick. He clamps the feeling down, although his insides are reeling. Sanders raped him. The man Napoleon worked under for three years raped him. This is what happened, this is why Illya knocked at his door in the middle of the night. Illya came to him, a complete stranger, for help. Because he doesn’t have anywhere else to go. Napoleon shoves all these thoughts away. He needs to focus, to do the right thing now and deal with the rest later.

“Illya, we have to get you to the hospital.”

The teen shakes his head frantically. “I can’t go.”

Napoleon swallows once, trying to keep it together. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing we can do about it. You’ve been hurt, you need more medical attention than I can provide.”

The trembling gets worse again to the point that Napoleon is afraid Illya might fall down where he sits. Illya wraps his arms tightly around his torso, nearly doubling over. “Please, I can’t go. Oleg will find me and take me back, but I- I can’t –“ A loud sob falls from his lips. “I can’t do this anymore, please I –“ And finally the dam breaks.  
Illya cries with every ounce of strength he has left, his shoulders shaking, his breath hitching. And when he does begin to slip a second later, Napoleon is there to catch him. He sinks to the floor with him, making sure that he won’t hurt himself even more. He’s about to withdraw when a trembling hand comes up to his chest and clutches his shirt, not strong enough to hold him back, but still trying. A little surprised, Napoleon reaches up to cover it with his. He’s careful as he shifts and lays his other arm around Illya’s shoulders. Illya goes with the motion until his face is pressed in the crook of Napoleon’s neck. All Napoleon can do is to wait until Illya has calmed a bit and not freak out himself. Illya is the priority right now, he himself can wait, has to wait. He doesn’t know how long it takes, but enough time has passed to make his legs feel numb from sitting on the floor, when Illya starts to breathe normally again. Napoleon gently squeezes the hand still clutching his shirt.

“You won’t go back there, I promise.” Napoleon will move heaven and earth to make it so. He feels Illya shaking his head, but he gently shushes him. “I won’t let Oleg take you back. I won’t let anyone take you back. This ends tonight.” And he already knows what to do. Gently, he moves the shoulder Illya is resting against. “And now, please, we need to go to the hospital.”

For a long time there is no response. Napoleon wonders if Illya exhausted himself to sleep, when there’s a tiny nod against him. 

Napoleon lets out a breath he didn’t knew he was holding. They sit another five minutes on the floor until Illya starts to move away. 

Illya refuses an ambulance, so Napoleon bundles him into a trench coat and a blanket and calls a cab to pick them up. Napoleon uses the minutes until it arrives to gather a few things to take with them and pull a sweater over his sleeping clothes. 

When they come down, the cab already waits for them. Napoleon joins Illya in the back of the cab, having already told the driver over the phone where they would be going. Illya lets his head rest against the window and doesn’t move for the whole ride. 

The ER is packed with people when they arrive. It’s a chaos of nurses, doctors and all kinds of patients. Illya stays behind Napoleon with his arms wrapped around himself. Napoleon has the urge to hold his hand, both to comfort him and to make sure he doesn’t run. Napoleon’s cane clicks on the linoleum, ready to play the please-let-me-through-I’m-disabled card. He hates doing so, but he doesn’t have it in him to care right now. Luckily, he hasn’t even had to push through to the reception desk when a familiar face shows up at his side. 

“Napoleon Solo? What are you doing here?”

In front of him stands Claire, one of the nurses he got to know during his stay between different operations on his knee. She looks stressed, as all nurses do, the stark light making the warm brown of her skin look sickly, but she still radiates this tireless energy you need to be born with to become a nurse. He doesn’t even have to answer, as she gives him a once over, shakes her head and looks at Illya. The teen looks like he’s trying to shrink under her gaze. 

Claire’s face softens as she takes a step towards him. “I guess you’re the reason?” 

Illya doesn’t answer her, glancing at Napoleon and looking as if he’s about to cry again. God, Napoleon could slap himself for forgetting. 

“Illya doesn’t speak English.”

Claire blinks in surprise, but catches herself after that. “Illya? Is he Russian?” 

“I think he is. At least he sounds like a native.”

Claire raises an eyebrow at him. “You think? How do you know him?”

“It’s complicated.” 

The nurse just nods, obviously used to statements like this. “As you see, we’re quite packed tonight, but I’ll get you a cot with a curtain somewhere to wait for a doctor. Head wounds tend to bleed a lot, but this doesn’t look too deep. He should be fine with a few stitches.”

Napoleon grabs her arm before she can jump into action. Claire frowns at him, but lets Napoleon step in close. “I’m afraid we need more than that. Illya-“ It’s pathetic that Napoleon has trouble even saying it aloud, when Illya is the one who suffered through it. The words still burn in him, even as he lets them out.

“We need a rape kit.” 

Napoleon could kiss Claire for only blinking once and motioning them to follow her. They get led out of the ER and into a silent examination room. Napoleon sits Illya down on the cot, choosing the chair for himself. Claire hands Napoleon a few forms to fill out and a pen. She looks between Napoleon and Illya back and forth. “He needs a translator, then. For the forms and for the examination. The hospital can provide one, but I don’t know when they will be here.”

Napoleon knows what she asks him to do, but that’s not up to him. He turns to Illya, switching languages without even needing to think about it. 

“Do you want me or someone else to translate for you during the examination?” 

No answer. 

“If you want me to go, I will.”

Illya glances at him shortly, before looking down at his hands again, rubbing the abrasions on his wrists.

“Stay.”

He tells Claire, who leaves them alone. 

Illya is hesitant to fill out the forms, but does help fill in the blanks after some gentle coaxing. As Napoleon suspected, Illya is his real name. Illya Kuryakin, born on July 25th sixteen years ago in Moscow. One dead sister, two dead parents, both of them died early and neither of a natural cause, which makes filling out the medical history of his family hard.

Napoleon is just writing himself down as the emergency contact and the one who the bills get sent to, as Illya speaks up.

“I will pay myself.”

Napoleon doesn’t stop writing down his address. “And how?”

There’s a short silence. “I can’t owe money to more people.”

It takes a lot of willpower, not to push the tip of the pen through the paper. “You owe Oleg, am I right?” 

A shaky exhale makes Napoleon look up. Illya is trembling again, his jaw clenched, his eyes squeezed shut.

“I don’t know how- how I can ever-“ Napoleon gets up from the chair and walks over to him. He waits for Illya to open his eyes before he slowly lies a hand on his clenched fists. 

“You don’t need to worry about that. I promised you don’t need to go back there, and I meant it.”

Before Illya can respond, the door opens. Illya flinches hard, instantly cowering in on himself, bringing his hands up. Napoleon turns around, already positioning him in front of Illya, grabbing his cane harder, to find a middle-aged woman in a lab coat entering the room. She gives them a compassionate smile as she approaches them. She holds out her hand to shake, which Illya pointedly ignores. Napoleon takes it instead, introducing them quickly. 

“I’m Dr. Wendy Ross. You’re going to translate for us?”

Napoleon nods. The doctor takes the filled out forms and briefly looks through them before placing them on a tray behind her. “Alright, let’s get started.”

Napoleon stays at Illya’s side during the exam, trying to translate as best as possible and not let his own thoughts color his speech. It doesn’t take long for the doctor to ask Illya to undress. The teen looks at Napoleon with pleading in his eyes, but there’s nothing they can do about it. Reluctantly Illya sheds one layer after the other. Napoleon doesn’t know if he’s shivering from the cold or the exposure. His eyes stay firmly on Illya’s face. He doesn’t think he can keep it together if he really sees what was done to him. The teen’s jaw clenches as the doctor slowly comes nearer. Asking permission first, she starts to examine Illya’s injuries more closely. As she starts to touch him, Illya looks ready to cry again, but too exhausted for any more tears. Napoleon translates in-between trying to comfort Illya somehow. It gets harder, when the doctor asks if Illya could describe what happened. She is very careful with her words, not pressuring Illya to do anything, but Napoleon needs a moment to translate. Illya looks away, neither facing the doctor, nor him. There’s a guilty part in Napoleon that hopes for Illya not to answer. After almost five minutes pass, he does, though. Napoleon tries not to think too hard about what he’s reliving. Sanders beating him, tying him down, raping him repeatedly. He kept Illya for almost six hours. And he was careful not to leave any traces of him. The doctor confirms that, finding nothing on Illya but his own blood. Napoleon would like to scream. 

The list of injuries seems to go on and on, various cuts and severe bruises, a few cracked ribs, a mild concussion, internal tears. The cuts on his temple need stitches, just as Claire said, as does a bite wound that Sanders slashed across with a knife after to destroy the imprints. 

When the exam is finally finished and all his wounds tended to, Dr. McCoy proposes admitting Illya for the night to keep an eye on him, just in case. Illya doesn’t react to that, so Napoleon decides for him to stay. The doctor enumerates what legal actions they could take even without physical evidence as Napoleon helps Illya into the fresh pajamas he bought for him a few weeks ago. Napoleon translates it for Illya, but he sees the teen isn’t really listening, so he commits everything to memory for later. Before they leave, Napoleon places the blanket around Illya’s shoulders again with a few careful tugs. Dr. Ross leaves them in Claire’s hands. Napoleon pays extra to get Illya a private room. They put him in a wheelchair to get him there. 

The room they are led to looks impersonal and cold, like Napoleon already expected. Illya climbs willingly into the bed, turning away from both Napoleon and Claire and curling in on his side. Carefully, Napoleon takes the blanket folded at the foot of the bed and drapes it over him. Illya’s only reaction is a small flinch. He repeats Claire’s brief explanations of the buttons and the layout of the room for him, but Illya stays facing away. Claire nods to Napoleon and leaves.

Unsure what to do, Napoleon stays standing in the middle of the room, watching Illya’s back. 

“Do you want to be alone?”

Again Illya doesn’t answer, just draws his legs a little tighter to his body. Napoleon takes it as a yes. 

“If you need anything, I’m right outside.”

He dims the lamps with the switch right next to the door, leaving just enough to see. 

He waits a second to see if he gets a reaction, then silently closes the door behind him, hoping that Illya will at least rest. 

There is a row of chairs not far away from the room, so he sits down, stretching out his bad leg. He hadn’t even noticed how much it hurts until now.

Slowly, the adrenalin starts to fade and leaves Napoleon shaky. One of the nurses drops a cup of coffee into his hands and he barely manages to say thank you. The taste is awful, the liquid only lukewarm, but at least it gives him something else to think about while he waits. 

And he doesn’t even have to wait for long. The corridor seems to rid itself of people almost miraculously, until a man in a long coat and a hat rounds a corner. Napoleon stands up to greet him.

Oleg doesn’t seem surprised to find Napoleon here. Or he hides it well. Napoleon subtly positions himself between the man and the door to Illya’s room. Even in the stark light of the hospital, Oleg’s eyes appear black and lifeless. 

The man stops in front of Napoleon with a silent demand to let him through, which is not happening. Napoleon decides to skip formalities. The scum in front of him not worth more of his time than absolutely necessary. 

“How much does he owe you?”

Oleg doesn’t even blink at his question.

“Twenty-five thousand dollars.”

Napoleon knows that the actual sum is probably far smaller, but this is what he made Illya believe he needed to come up with. The rage within Napoleon is unfamiliar and he has to try his hardest not to let it consume him.

“Fine. What about if I give you fifty thousand and nobody comes looking for him.”

Oleg looks at him without saying a word. Napoleon holds his gaze and reaches into his pocket. The key is small, a number engraved on it. He shows it Oleg and holds it out for him. 

“There’s a locker at central station with the money. Take it and leave Illya alone.”

Oleg lets him wait another few moments before taking it. They don’t shake hands, but it’s alright, Napoleon wouldn’t have taken it anyway. Oleg tips his head and turns to leave. His steps echo in the hallway. Napoleon is about to sit down when the other man stops. 

“Mr. Sanders sends his regards. You’re finished now.”

Napoleon freezes where he stands. There’s a ringing in his ears as he watches Oleg walk away.

He is barely able to wait for the man to round the next corner before he starts running. The rush of his blood drowns out every other sound. He takes a few corners at random while he reaches for his phone. There’s a small bathroom in front of him. He storms through the door and locks it behind him. His legs give out as soon as it clicks shut. His hands are shaking so bad he needs a few tries to dial. 

His breaths are shaky as he waits for the line to connect. Napoleon rakes his free hand through his hair, trying and failing to compose himself. He doesn’t have the time for this and he wishes he could just stop, he needs to take care of Illya, what if he looks for him in this moment and he’s-

“Napoleon Solo, ist das dein Ernst? Weißt du, wie spät es ist?”

Gaby’s voice is muffled with sleep, her English not yet there and she’s clearly angry. Napoleon could cry about the fact alone that she picked up.

“It’s all my fault.”

His voice sounds odd in his ears, but everything else does, too. 

Gaby’s voice sharpens immediately, now awake and concerned. 

“What is going on? Are you alright?”

Napoleon lets out something half laugh half sob. He’s not alright, but what does he matter right now? 

“Napoleon talk to me, please, what—“

“Sanders raped him.”

The line goes silent, but he knows that Gaby hasn’t hung up.

He takes a shuddering breath.

“He raped Illya to get back at me. This is my fault. I even told Illya to turn him down. I was so stupid, I should have known Sanders wouldn’t let it go. I-“

“Stop Napoleon, right now.”

He bangs his head once against the door he’s leaning on to make himself shut up. He does it twice more, because it feels good.

Gaby curses once. “I know you won’t listen to me right now, but what this sicko does is not your fault.”

“I-“

“No, I won’t have it. Tell me where you are, I’m coming.”

“You don’t have to –“

“Yes I do. Where are you?”

He knows from her tone, that her words are final. He doesn’t know if he should be glad or not. 

“I’m at the Metro-General Hospital. They’re keeping Illya overnight.”

“Alright, I’ll there in ten.” 

She doesn’t hang up, though. Instead she keeps talking to him, describing what she does, coaxing him to get up from the floor and back to the row of chairs with his leg propped up. Napoleon doesn’t know how she does it, but she’s there exactly ten minutes later. She only hangs up after he sees her round the corner. Her hair is a mess, her coat just thrown over her pajamas. Napoleon would smile at the sight if he wasn’t so utterly drained. Wordlessly she sits down beside him and makes him lay his head on her shoulder, throwing her arm around him. 

They sit in silence for a few minutes, Gaby’s fingers wandering in Napoleon’s hair. On any other day he would have batted her hand away, but right now he can’t. Her voice is barely above a whisper. 

“How is he?”

Unbelievably brave, probably too trusting, hopefully asleep. Still, this is not what comes out of his mouth.

“There’s going to be a scar on his face.” He swallows once. “On his temple, right side.”

And Illya’s going to remember this night every time he sees his reflection or someone asks about it. Gaby squeezes him softly, because he’s pathetic. 

“I’m going to take him home with me.”

That is, if Illya wants to, but he doubts the teen has many options.

Gaby exhales, her breath moving the hairs on top of his head. 

“I don’t think this is a good idea, you know that.”

He really does. Gaby is right to worry, but there’s no other way. 

“He came to me, because there’s nobody else who would have helped. I can’t let him down.”

Gaby lets out a sigh, half tired, half fond. He knows he’s got her. 

“This isn’t your fault what happened to him. It’s nothing you have to fix and might not be able to, even if you try your best.”

Napoleon nods against her shoulder. On some level he knows she’s right. Still, he won’t forgive himself if he does nothing. 

Her fingers start to stroke over his head again. 

“The only thing I want you to do is get help, if you need it. Call me, call whoever, but this isn’t going to be one of your Solo-projects, verstanden?”

Napoleon manages a tired smile at the bad pun. “Thank you, I will.”

“You’d better, you hear me?”

***

Gaby stays as long as she can, but unlike him she has places to be. Napoleon waits for Dr. Ross to check on Illya and follows her in.

Illya lies on the bed in a similar way he slept on Napoleon’s couch, curled in with the blanket up over his nose, but when they enter the room, Napoleon is sure that he hasn’t slept. Napoleon rounds the bed so he can face Illya without the teen needing to turn around. His eyes are open, the same icy blue now rimmed with red and black bruises which have darkened overnight. Napoleon refrains from wishing him a good morning. 

“Dr. Ross needs to do a quick check-up, is that alright? After that we’re free to go.”

Illya nods. Napoleon motions for the doctor to begin. 

Again he starts to translate for Illya. It’s mostly just a few questions, asking if something has gotten worse over the last few hours and checking the injuries. They barely need ten minutes. 

Ross sends a nurse to fetch some prescription painkillers and other drugs while Illya slowly gets ready to leave. Napoleon helps him into the shoes and jacket and wraps the blanket securely around him. The nurse returns after a few minutes with the pills, a wheel chair and a few release forms. Ross goes over everything with him again while she pushes Illya to the front door. They are slow, because Napoleon’s knee makes it impossible for him to keep up with a faster pace after last night, but the additional time helps him to commit everything to memory. He makes an internal list about what he should look out for and what he needs to do. At the moment getting Illya to rest and gain more weight is the priority as is finding him a good psychologist for when he’s ready. Halfway to the exit, Dr. Ross leaves them with a quick but heartfelt goodbye, roping another nurse into pushing Illya’s chair. 

A cab is already waiting for them at the front door, as is Clair. The look on her face and her subtle nod makes Napoleon excuse himself for a second to join her in a quiet corner.

As usual, she wastes no time. 

“He’s underage and you’re not his legal guardian, nor did you mention one in the forms. Dr. Ross is going to notice that, when she goes over the file again. You know we’re obliged to inform the authorities about that. I’m guessing he doesn’t have a visa?”

Napoleon swallows thickly. He should have thought about that earlier. 

“I don’t think so.”

Claire nods. 

“You know, the hospital is a large institution. Some papers might get lost for a while before they turn up again in the wrong stack.”

Before Napoleon can say anything, Claire raises her hands. “Don’t thank me, just sort this out before we all get into trouble.”

She waits for Napoleon to nod, then disappears into the chaos of the ER.

Napoleon quickly walks back to Illya, who is struggling to stand up on his own and glaring at the nurse trying to help in. With a few fast steps Napoleon is by his side again. “Let me do it.” Illya’s glare loses its intensity as Napoleon carefully grabs his upper arm to guide him up. He nods at the nurse in goodbye, before herding Illya into the cab. Illya stares out the window, unmoving during the whole ride.

As they arrive at Napoleon’s building, the teen looks exhausted again. Napoleon pays the driver and climbs out first. He holds a hand out for Illya to take, but the teen ignores it. Instead, as soon as the cab is gone, he starts to take off the blanket around him. Napoleon knows exactly where this is going.

“Keep this on until we’re inside.”

Illya nods silently after a few moments. As he follows Napoleon inside, his head is lowered in defeat. Napoleon fights down the urge to lay his arm around Illya’s shoulder, comforting the teen as Gaby comforted him last night, but he doubts it would be appreciated. The elevator ride is silent. Illya starts to sway a little on his feet, the new drugs probably kicking in. Napoleon stays close in case Illya’s legs give out again. The door to his apartment opens without protest. The apartment looks exactly like every other day, which makes sense, but somehow feels odd. 

Napoleon leaves his cane leaned against the wall next to the door, although his knee is pulsing with pain. He deliberately ignores it as he steps out of his shoes and hangs up his coat before helping Illya to do the same. Quickly he lays the blanket around Illya’s shoulder again, so that there’s one more layer over the rather thin pajama. There’s nothing much else Napoleon can do, but at least try to get Illya comfortable.

“Would you like something to eat? Drink?”

Illya shakes his head. Napoleon figured as much. He lets it go for now. 

“A shower?”

At that Illya looks up, looking equally tired and hopeful. Napoleon manages a small smile, although his insides ache.

“You’re not supposed to get the stitches wet. There are some special waterproof Band-Aids you can use. Do you want me to help with the one on your shoulder? ”

A small nod. 

“Alright then, let’s go.”

Illya hesitates briefly before heading to the bathroom. It looks the same as well. As if Illya didn’t break down here just a few hours back.

Napoleon shakes the thought and starts the shower. When he turns around, Illya is clutching the blanket around his shoulder, looking away. God knows that the teen doesn’t need someone watching him undress right now, so Napoleon turns his back, taking unnecessarily long to look for the Band-Aids. When he turns back, the blanket is still wrapped around Illya, but the pajama shirt it is gone. Good enough.

Napoleon selects a bandage that’s a little too big for the wound, but he used up all the medium-sized ones for his knee after the operations. 

“Turn around please?”

Again, Illya hesitates, but complies after a moment. 

“I’m going to just pull down the blanket a little. You can keep in on.”

He waits for Illya to nod before he carefully extends his hand. Illya still flinches as Napoleon’s fingers brush his skin at first, but he stays where he is. It doesn’t take long for Napoleon to cover the wound. When he’s finished, he takes a step back. Illya adjusts the blanket immediately to cover the spot. This is Napoleon’s cue to leave.

“I guess you’ll manage the one on your temple alone. If you need anything, yell –” Napoleon becomes aware of the fact that not a single word left Illya’s lips since the exam. “or come find me. I’ll ready your bed.”

Illya nods again, not looking at him. This time Napoleon hears the lock turn after he leaves the room. Something makes Napoleon wait for a few moments. The sound of the water running drowns out Illya moving around, but not the choked sob. Napoleon makes himself leave. 

Same as last time he grabs his spare blanket and pillow, but he can’t possibly let the teen sleep on the couch after what happened. With a sigh, he starts to change the bedclothes of his own bed. He chooses one of the more expensive sets which feel soft and cool against skin. It takes a few minutes to ready everything and tidy up the bedroom until he’s satisfied. All the Russian books in his possession (which are only three, he will have to upgrade on that front) are stacked on the bedside table next to a bottle of water and some snacks. He leaves a few of the painkillers there as well, but not enough to be dangerous, just in case.

He grabs the spare pillow and blanket and takes them to the living room. He sets them down on the couch, not yet making it up as a bed. He’s tired enough, even though it’s barely noon, but he needs at least to wait until Illya is settled. Sleeping on the couch for more than a night is going to put a strain on his knee, but whatever. With a groan he walks, or rather limps, over to the cabinet where he stores his liquor. He chooses his favorite scotch and pours himself one. He should have started with a cheaper one though, because he downs the first glass in one go. 

He’s almost finished his second one when he hears the shower turn off. It takes almost ten minutes for the door to open. Napoleon doesn’t have to wait long for Illya to appear in the door to the living room, wearing the pajamas and the blanket again. Unsure what to do with himself, he glances at the couch, but doesn’t say anything. Napoleon tries not to worry too much over that. 

“Do you want anything to eat now?”

Illya still shakes his head, glancing at the couch again.

“You want to lie down?”

He nods, taking a small steps into the room. Napoleon gets up from the table with a groan, waving Illya off. 

“Wrong direction, bedroom at the end of the hall.”

Illya stops dead in his tracks. His hand slowly comes up to his chest, clutching at the blanket there. His eyes widen, his face loses the little color it has. Napoleon doesn’t understand what’s wrong until he takes a step forward and Illya stumbles back until he hits the wall behind him. For the blink of an eye Napoleon mirrors the terror on Illya’s face.

“I’ll sleep on the couch, Illya. I- ” God, he would like to slap himself, hard, for saying something that could let Illya think that way. “I will never hurt you like that. Never.”

The teen still stares at him, frozen in place. Napoleon slowly raises his hands and takes a few steps back. 

“There’s a deadbolt in the bedroom. You can lock it from the inside, if you want to. I swear I won’t ever-” Napoleon can’t even finish the sentence without losing the fight against the nausea building up in him. 

Illya looks at him warily for a few long moments, but finally takes a step away from the wall. With a glance over his shoulders, Illya disappears from the living room. Napoleon would be relieved, if he weren’t so close to throwing up. He listens to Illya open the door of the bedroom, but there’s no sound of the deadbolt sliding in place. He doesn’t know if this is a good sign or just a test. 

He spends the next few hours emptying the bottle before he mercifully passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for underage rape(off-screen, but description of aftermath), hypervigilance as part of PTSD
> 
> let me know if I forgot something, it's been a while since I first wrote it


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I finally managed to get this chapter ready haha   
> Sorry for the long wait, I hope you enjoy reading it!

Napoleon wakes up with a pounding headache and a foul taste in his mouth. For a few sweet moments it’s just like any other hangover he’s suffered, then he remembers the reason for his drinking. He doesn’t move other than blinking his eyes open. There’s still a little daylight falling through the windows. He checks his phone for the time and ignores a couple of missed calls from Gaby. It’s early evening, still the same day. He slept about three hours. That would have to be enough.

His whole body protests as he sits up, but he doesn’t care. Without his cane he wouldn't be able to make it out of the living room. The door to his bedroom looms at the other end of the hall. Napoleon can’t face it yet.

He slips into the bathroom to brush his teeth. His eyes fall onto the bloodied towel with which he wiped down Illya’s face yesterday. The stains probably won’t come out. He picks it up and throws it in the trash.

Getting out his toothbrush, he glances at the mirror. His reflection proves that he looks as awful as he feels. He runs his hands half-heartedly through his hair after he’s done brushing. It doesn’t fix anything, but it doesn’t matter. With a heavy sigh he turns to leave the bathroom. He looks left to the bedroom door again. He needs to check on Illya, to make sure he takes his drugs and the right amount, but somehow he doesn’t want to go in there with nothing else on his agenda. He turns away and heads for the kitchen. It’s a little early to have dinner, but Illya needs to regain a lot of strength. He doesn’t mind making something else later.

Napoleon looks through his cabinets and fridge and contemplates what to make; something fast, but at least a little healthy, which won’t upset Illya’s stomach and preferably with a lot of calories. He settles for an omelet with a lot of vegetables and a lot of cheese.

It doesn’t take long for him to get everything ready. He puts it on a small tray he uses sometimes for breakfast in bed and lays out the prescribed drugs next to the plate. He adds an apple and a glass of juice for good measure and carries it over. Stopping in front of the bedroom door, he takes a deep breath before shifting his grip to knock on the door. He is met with silence, but it’s nothing he didn’t expect. He knocks again.

“It’s me, Solo. I made dinner.”

Still nothing.

He hesitates another few seconds.

“Illya, I’m opening the door now.”

He slowly turns the handle and lets the door swing open. The room is dark, only the light from the hall illuminating the place. It’s enough to make out the outlines of the furniture. There’s a lump on the bed, pale eyes peeking out from above the blanket. He doesn’t have to see the rest of his face to recognize the misery shining in them.

Napoleon clears his throat.

“May I come in?”

He has to wait for another few seconds, until Illya gives a wordless nod. With carefully measured steps, he walks in. He sets down the tray on the night table and takes a few steps back again. Illya’s eyes rest on the food, but he doesn’t make an attempt to sit up. The things Napoleon left for him earlier are mostly undisturbed, but one of the water bottles is now half empty. At least he drank something.

“You need to take your drugs.”

Illya just looks at him tiredly before closing his eyes again.

Napoleon sighs. “Look, I’ll leave you alone again as soon as you take them, if that’s what you want, but you _need_ to take them, alright?”

At first Illya doesn’t react. Napoleon stays where he is, unmoving. He's just realizing he has no idea what to do if Illya refuses to take them, when Illya slowly pushes down the comforter. The bruises on his face and his throat have bloomed in a dark purple within the last few hours. Napoleon tries not to react.

Illya pushes himself up slowly, pain evident in every move.

“Do you need help?”

The teen only bites his lip and shakes his head. Napoleon’s hands twitch at his sides. It seems to take ages. With shaky fingers Illya reaches for the assembled pills and the glass of juice. He takes all at once with a sip of the juice and sets the glass down again. Without taking a second glance at Napoleon or the omelet he lies back down and pulls up the comforter to his nose. His eyes flutter close again.

Napoleon suppresses a sigh and turns to leave the room. He pauses briefly before closing the door behind him. “If you need anything, let me know.”

He doesn’t expect a reaction and he doesn’t get one. He just hopes that Illya actually manages to sleep.

The first thing he does after leaving the bedroom is call Waverly and tell him and tell him that not only does he need more time off, he doesn't even know when he will return. The Brit doesn’t sound surprised. Napoleon isn’t sure if it’s because of Napoleon’s own state in the last few weeks or if Gaby warned him. He doesn’t really care, thanks Waverly and hangs up. After that he fires up his laptop and starts googling the therapists recommended by the hospital. Judging from the reviews and diplomas on their sites they all seem qualified enough, but there’s no hint of anyone of them speaking Russian or having the personnel for it. He leaves all of them a message asking about that, but he doesn’t dare to hope.

He busies himself with tidying up and cleaning. Having dinner himself is unappealing, so he doesn’t even start cooking. Scotch is definitely still appealing, but he already feels bad about the last time. He can’t allow it to let himself go like that, not when Illya might need him. With that in mind he calls off every other appointment he has for the next two weeks. His counselor isn’t happy. After another check of his inventory he orders more groceries online. In an afterthought he orders a few sets of clothes as well. Soon he runs out of things to do and takes out his sketch pad instead. He doesn’t draw anything, but staring at the blank pages is better than staring at the walls.

He doesn’t sleep.

 

***

 

Napoleon is not really surprised when Gaby appears on his doorstep the next day. He would feel guilty about ignoring her calls, but he’s too tired for that. In lieu of greeting, she hugs him tight for a few moments. Again, Napoleon doesn’t know what he did to deserve her as a friend.

When she steps back, her hands still linger on him.

“You don’t look too well. How are you?”

Napoleon shrugs. What is there to say?

“Would you like some coffee?”

Gaby nods, her concerned expression not faltering. He’s aware that she takes note of the more pronounced limp in his gait as she follows him. She notices the bedding piled carelessly on the couch and the now-cold waffles sitting on the kitchen counter. Napoleon busies himself with making coffee and tries not to feel self-conscious as Gaby leans against the wall behind him.

“Someone wasn’t hungry this morning.”

The remark is innocent enough, but Napoleon’s hands tighten involuntary.

“Illya hasn’t touched anything so far.”

Napoleon found Illya's breakfast where he'd left it that morning, and exchanged it for lunch an hour ago. Now sitting on his bedside table were two sandwiches, identical to the one he made Illya the first night he stayed here in the off-chance that he just didn’t like what Napoleon made him so far. The slow blink Illya gave him after setting down the tray once again leaves him with little hope, though.

Napoleon didn’t really eat anything himself, but that’s not the point.

Gaby hums. “Where is he right now?”

“Still in bed.” Still looking utterly drained. Still not a single word leaving his lips.

“You gave him your room?”

Napoleon refuses to grate his teeth at the question. Both he and Gaby know how hard he has been fighting to get a little rest the last few weeks, battling hypervigilance and insomnia. Giving up his personal refuge doesn’t make this easier, but Illya needs it more at the moment. And he knows that the lack of sleep makes him irritable and Gaby doesn’t deserve being his outlet. He takes a deep breath and turns around to face her.

“I wanted to give him a little more privacy than the living room could offer.”

Gaby’s smile is compassionate as he meets her gaze. Something in him loosens at that.

“That’s good.”

The coffee is done just a few moments. Napoleon hands her one of the full mugs and adds a little sugar to his own, for which he still earns a headshake from Gaby. The gesture is so ordinary it actually startles Napoleon because nothing feels ordinary anymore, or at least not in a good way. He trails Gaby out of the kitchen and into the living room, but instead of sitting down at the table Gaby walks over to the couch. She leaves her mug at the small table in front of it and turns on his tv. Napoleon already knows what he’s in for, when she starts Netflix.

Gaby sits down and pats the space next to her.

“So you have two options. You can watch White Collar with me from the beginning –“

He groans. “Why is it always White Collar?”

Gaby smirks. “Various reasons. First of all, you would totally be Neal if you hadn’t joined the army, and then –“

Napoleon holds up his hands in surrender. “Alright, what is my second option?”

The cursor already hovers over said show, which Napoleon secretly enjoys even more than her, as Gaby continues.

“I still watch White Collar and you take a nap.”

She smiles at him kindly. “If anything happens, I’ll wake you instantly, of course.”

Before he knows, Napoleon’s legs decide to walk over to her and let himself fall onto the couch right next to her. When he stays sitting upright, Gaby stares at him until he slides down and lies on his side. She fusses a little with the blanket thrown over the backrest until it covers most of Napoleon and then starts the first episode.

With all the nervous energy buzzing inside him, he doesn’t think he will be able to rest, but to his surprise he blinks once and they are in a different episode. He doesn’t know if it’s because his exhaustion finally takes over or if it’s simply having someone he trusts watching out. Maybe it’s a combination of both. He closes his eyes again and listens to the show, as he tries to remember if the one with the bible is the third of fourth episode.

In the hall a door opens. Instantly he raises his head and listens harder. He can’t make out the silent steps, but he hears another door opening and closing, then the faint clicking of a lock.

Illya is up. The amount of relief about the teen simply leaving the bed to go to the bathroom is ridiculous, as is the sudden need to go check on him.

A hand lays itself down on Napoleon’s shoulder, holding him in place with gentle pressure.

“If he needs you right now, he will come looking for you.”

Napoleon wants to protest, but Gaby shushes him. “Remember, he already did that or he wouldn’t be here at all. And you’re going to check on him later anyway.”

He doesn’t reply, as he hears the door unlock, waiting for Illya to carefully knock on the door to the living room next, but it doesn’t happen. Instead there is another door opening and closing. Napoleon sighs silently. Gaby pats his arm.

“After the next episode we can start dinner, alright?”

Napoleon nods and closes his eyes again.

 

***

 

Gaby stays true to her word. They make dinner together, reminding Napoleon how hungry he is himself. He readies a serving for Illya and puts the right amount of medicaments on the tray next to it. The weight that lifted a little over the course of the day settles back down on his shoulders as he knocks again on the bedroom door. Just like the previous times he doesn’t get an answer. When he opens it, Illya doesn’t raise his head. Napoleon tries not to be disappointed as he sees the untouched sandwiches and just switches the plates out. Illya glances briefly at him as he reaches for the medications. Napoleon watches him as he takes the pills with a sip of juice and turns to leave.

He stops shortly at the door.

“I have a friend over. Her name is Gaby. If you would like some company that’s not me…”

Napoleon shuts his mouth as Illya shakes his head. He doesn’t know what he expected. He runs his hand over his face before turning around to join Gaby in the living room again. She glances at the sandwiches in his hand, but doesn’t comment. Instead she settles on the couch again to start the next episode. Napoleon joins her and tries not to scream.

 

***

_“Who is this?”_

Napoleon jumps at the harsh tone over his phone, but his nerves are so shot that he jumps at everything right now.

“Claire? This is Napoleon Solo.”

He’s a little astonished how wrecked he sounds and he’s not even the one this call is about.

Claire’s voice doesn’t really soften, it never really does, but he can hear concern swinging with it.

_“Is everything all right?”_

His first reflex is to say yes, which is curious, since it’s been a long time since everything was alright in his life.

“Illya won’t eat.”

A quiet hum over the line.

_“For how long?”_

“Since he left the hospital.” Which means three days by now.

He can practically hear Claire think.

Illya is already underweight. His body has literally nothing to work with to recover. But Napoleon still hasn’t worked anything out concerning Illya’s citizenship or conjured a legal guardian. He doesn’t know what will happen if they hit the hospital again. He doesn’t even know if he can get Illya to go at all.

_“If this goes on, you have to bring him in again at the end of the week at latest.”_

Napoleon nods, although he knows she can’t see him.

 

***

 

The tray is again untouched. It’s the fifth day. Napoleon is desperate.

Desperate enough to try the cheap tricks. There are three tabs open on his laptop. One is a Russian forum, one is a translator and the third is the basic recipe of borscht.

It looks less complicated than Napoleon thought it would be. When he pours it into a bowl, it looks like in the picture. It tastes fine, although Napoleon is not sure how it compares to the real thing. His throat feels tight as he readies the tray and carries it down the hall.

He still knocks on the door and waits, even if he knows Illya won’t answer. What startles him is the faint rustling of sheets barely audible through the door.

When he opens the door, Illya is already perched up in his bed. He looks at him suspiciously, his eyes large and blue in his pale face. Napoleon tries to calm his nerves as he steps into the room and sets down the tray on the nightstand.

The scent might have been enough for Illya to recognize the dish, but Illya still stares at it for a long minute until he turns his head back to Napoleon.

All Napoleon can do is shrug.

“I thought you might like something from home.”

Illya just looks at him, staying silent. Napoleon didn’t expect him to say anything, he just waits. If Illya refuses this as well, Napoleon will have no choice but to bring him to the hospital again and he already knows that won’t be pretty.

Illya is still looking at him when the teen blinks once, twice before squeezing his eyes shut. Napoleon can see a tear slip down his cheek in the dim light. Pushing himself fully upright is a painfully slow process to watch, probably just plain painful for Illya to do. The teen’s hands shake when they reach for the tray, Illya’s grip shaky at best.

“Here, let me.”

Napoleon steadies the tray as Illya pulls it towards him, placing it on his lap. Illya stares at it for another minute until he picks up the spoon.

It’s more than a little awkward that Napoleon just stands there and stares at him guiding the spoon to his mouth, but he can’t help it. He’s scared even to blink in case he's imagined it all or Illya decides to refuse it after all.

But Illya opens his mouth and actually starts eating. Napoleon is so relieved his legs might actually give out. Illya’s brows draw together slightly as he takes another spoonful, as if he’s not quite sure that he likes it, but eats it anyway.

Napoleon manages to stop staring and steps back with a smile.

“I’ll leave you to it then. If you want more, there’s still plenty left.”

He waits for Illya to nod before he gathers the last untouched meal and walks back into the living room.

The urge to dance along the hall in victory is strong, but his knee will be just as unforgiving as the food he’s balancing.

He sets down Illya’s breakfast in the kitchen and heats it back up, while he sends a few texts to Gaby and Claire. This might actually be the last time Napoleon eats Illya’s leftovers as his meal, which makes the eggs and toast a lot tastier.

Gaby hits him back almost instantly with a text full of smileys and asks for the recipe.

_Are we back on for Movie-Saturday?_

Napoleon hums to himself as he contemplates. He canceled yesterday. Maybe getting a little bit of his usual routine back might not be such a bad idea.

_Sure, your pick._

He settles down on the table with his leftover meal, ready to dig in when he hears it.

Down the hall, a door opens. Napoleon’s hand pauses on its way to his mouth. He waits for the telltale click of the handle of the bathroom, Illya’s footsteps themselves too silent to follow.

It doesn’t come.

Instead there is a quiet knock on the door to the living room. It takes a moment for Napoleon to react.

“You don’t need to knock.”

When nothing happens at first, Napoleon almost thinks he just imagined things, then slowly the door is pushed open.

The blanket over Illya’s shoulders doesn’t hide the weight he lost. Napoleon didn’t think the teen even had anything left to lose.

Nevertheless, this is the first time Napoleon has seen Illya up and although this is what Napoleon hoped for, he isn’t really prepared for that.

Illya stays in the doorway, looking at Napoleon as if he’s waiting for something.

“Would you like to come sit with me?”

Glancing down, he notices the lit of a plate peek out from under the blanket.

“Sit and I’ll get you a little more soup?”

After another moment, Illya nods. His feet drag across the floor on his way to the table. He shoves the plate onto the table before pulling out a chair painfully slowly, his hands just shy from shaking from exertion. Napoleon waits for him to sit down before returning to the kitchen with Illya’s plate. Illya’s eyes follow him until he’s back at the table.

Napoleon sits down at the opposite side of the table and pushes the now filled plate back towards Illya with a fresh spoon. Illya eyes the meal in front of Napoleon, clearly recognizing his own breakfast. It’s nearly cold again, but Napoleon doesn’t mind much. His smile is still careful.

“Bon appetit, Peril.”

The halfhearted glare he receives leaves no doubt that Illya knows exactly what he’s referring to and it’s good to see a little life return to his eyes. Napoleon cuts off a little piece of toast and pops it in his mouth with a wink. Illya lowers his head towards his own plate.

Slowly he picks up the spoon. He only glances back up after he lifts it to his lips.

Napoleon meets his eyes without hesitation.

“Is it any good?”

Illya blinks once, then shakes his head.

Napoleon can feel the corners of his mouth twitch up.

“I guess I could use some of your expertise the next time, what do you think?”

 

* * *

 

Illya keeps on eating and stays silent.

Napoleon reads up on mutism and it’s not an unheard-of result of trauma. It’s not something he thinks he needs to act on immediately, never mind that he doesn’t know how he even would approach that, but it makes some things harder. His Russian might be passable, but it’s far from perfect. Napoleon never googled as many translations in his life only to find Illya staring at him still uncomprehending.

Still, the fact that Illya joins him in the living room from time to time is a huge improvement itself. The teen reads a lot, which means he already finished War and Peace and the rest of Napoleon’s few books in Russian last him about two days. When Napoleon tried to get him to point out which book he would like to read next, Illya only shook his head. Napoleon knows Illya has an estimate about how much money Napoleon spends on him and tries to keep it as low as possible. Napoleon told him not to worry about it, but he sure can understand that it’s hard for Illya not to. Without the input Napoleon orders anything from biographies to science fiction, drops the books on Illya’s (or rather Napoleon’s) bed and waits for a reaction.

The reaction comes to Napoleon, while he lies on the couch with his phone, in form of books raining down on him. Napoleon drops his phone in surprise and looks up to a glaring Illya. The sight makes him almost smile, but he doesn’t think Illya would take that too well.

“Don’t you like them?”

Silence. More glaring.

“Well, if you just told me what you wanted, this wouldn’t have happened.”

The teen shakes his head, knowing perfectly that Napoleon is just playing stupid. With a sigh, Napoleon sits up, collecting the books into a neat pile.

“So, if you don’t want them, what else would you rather do?”

The teen crosses his arms in front of his chest, shaking his head again.

They both know that Illya’s choice of activities is limited at best with the little energy he has.

Napoleon looks back at him, calm, but firm.

“Do what you want, Illya. I won’t give them back, so either you read them or not.”

He picks his phone back up and unlocks it. Illya hasn’t moved an inch as he taps the screen randomly just to look busy. The moment the teen glances at the pile of books, Napoleon knows he has won. With a huff Illya picks up the whole pile and disappears into the bedroom.

When Napoleon fetches him later for dinner, he finds the teen lounging on his bed, nose-deep in _The Night Watch_ , fantasy novel, Napoleon thinks, and all the other book spread around him. His eyes peer over the top of the book, daring Napoleon to say anything.

Napoleon doesn’t. Small victories.

That night, he sleeps well.

 

* * *

 

It’s pure chance that Napoleon leaves out the chess board. While Illya seems to enjoy his new books well enough, reading still might get old, if one does little else every day. Illya isn’t all that good with watching TV, which they only found out after an attempt of watching something on Netflix. Their selection with Russian subtitles was small to begin with and after filtering out the more violent shows, there was barely anything left. Illya practically jumped out of his skin at sudden changes of volume and that was before a random man in a street scene raised his voice. Illya barely made it to the bathroom before he threw up his lunch.  It was a mutual agreement to leave the TV turned off after that.

Napoleon is looking rather unsuccessfully for some simple card or board games, something Illya might already know the rules of but doesn’t get boring with only two players, preferably one where you don’t need to talk. It’s even harder to find one because Napoleon doesn’t own that many games to begin with. Self-preservation, mostly. Digging through one of his cupboards for an old stack of cards that he forgot to throw out, his grandfather’s chess board only gets up on the table so Napoleon has more space to rummage.

The faint clicking of wood on wood behind him makes Napoleon turn around. He’s almost used to Illya’s silent appearances by now and knows when to expect them. What he didn’t expect is the teen arranging the pieces on the board with a confidence that speaks of routine.

Napoleon abandons his endeavors and joins him at the table.

“You know how to play?”

Illya’s hand hesitates shortly before he sets a white rook it its rightful place, then he nods.

“We could play a round or two?”

The teen looks up from the board, scrutinizing Napoleon as if to say _Are you any good_?

Napoleon hums once and slides into the chair. “Don’t think I will go easy on you.”

Illya wins the first game. And all the ones after.

There’s only so much Napoleon’s pride can take before he gives up for the day. When Illya joins him on the couch that evening, Napoleon almost misses the small, smug upturn of his lips.

 

* * *

 

Illya looks up from his book when the doorbell rings. Saturday came fast. Napoleon glances at Illya before getting up to open the door. Of course they talked about Gaby coming over (or rather Napoleon talked, Illya only shrugged), but Napoleon isn’t sure how this evening is going to turn out. Especially after the Netflix-disaster. Napoleon was ready just to call everything off, but stubborn as Illya is, he just glared and shook his head. At least he nodded, when Napoleon told him to signal, when he gets uncomfortable, so they could stop. Napoleon is not too sure he can trust Illya on this, so he is going to watch Illya instead of the screen, simple as that.

Gaby greets him with a short hug and steps around him into the living room. Napoleon half-expects Illya to have vanished when they enter, but he still sits on the couch, not having moved an inch.

He doesn’t get up either as Gaby approaches him. Their gazes meet, but Gaby doesn’t hesitate a moment to stick her hand out.

“Gaby Teller. You must be Illya, then?”

Illya glances at Napoleon, a little unsure, but takes Gaby’s hand and shakes it once stiffly.

A small smile lifts Gaby’s lips.

“Alright, I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Since you’re new to this whole movie night thing, I’m letting you choose the pizza toppings.”

Again Napoleon gets a questioning look.

Pizza is probably the only word Illya understood. Napoleon takes pity and translates, already on the way to get the phone, but Illya stays silent.

Napoleon busies himself with the clutter on the counter, knowing exactly what’s going on in Illya’s head. He gets one of the half-empty notebooks and a pen, setting it down in front of Illya.

He tried to get Illya to communicate like this before, but his silence was not just verbal. Napoleon pretends not to notice the apprehension in Illya’s eyes as he looks down at the notebook.

“The first three toppings are free, just so you know.”

That’s a lie, but chances are Illya won’t ever find out anyway. The teen glances at Solo, then at Gaby, who busies herself with going over Napoleon’s Blu-Ray collection, studying the small dots Napoleon stuck to the cases on the ones with Russian subtitles. Slowly Illya takes up the pen and scribbles something down hesitantly. When he hands it back to Napoleon, their fingers brush briefly. Illya doesn’t flinch at the contact.

Handwritten Cyrillic is a little bit different than the printed alphabet, so it takes Napoleon a second longer to decipher it.

Napoleon nods, already dialing. “Mushrooms, alright. Nothing else?”

Illya’s eyes narrow a little.

Gaby’s voice startles the teen out of the frown before it can fully form.

“I hope that means extra cheese.”

Napoleon raises an eyebrow and translates. Illya shrugs. He takes that as a yes and adds it to their order when the delivery service picks up.

After he hung up, Napoleon gathers a few drinks from the fridge, while Gaby unpacks the snacks she brought.

Gaby settles on the couch next to Illya, leaving a good portion of space between them, and turns to him.

“I think it’s easier for you to pick the movie tonight. Anything you’re interested in?”

Napoleon gets another glance from Illya, then he translates, while he hands him back the notebook.

This time, there’s no hesitation when he takes the block and the pen, but then he stops with his hand just hovering over the page. He glances once at the Blu-Rays on the shelf, but writes nothing. His fingers grip the pen tighter. Napoleon knows he’s been reluctant to choose anything for himself, but he doesn’t quite think this is it. Before he can intervene, Gaby speaks up.

“Alright, let’s just narrow it down a little. Disney, superheroes, Star Wars or Lord of the Rings?”

Illya looks up towards her, his fingers loosening a little around the pen. Napoleon translates without prompting. He likes that Gaby still addresses Illya directly, even though she knows he won’t answer.

The teen pauses for a moment, then writes on the notebook, showing it to Napoleon.

Gaby looks expectantly at Napoleon.

Napoleon reads the note twice, careful not to misunderstand. His eyebrows draw up lightly.

“He’s asking what Lord of the Rings is about.”

Gaby’s eyes widen, as she looks back at Illya.

“Alright, that settles it. Lord of the Rings then.”

Napoleon is a little skeptical on Illya’s behalf, because while he loves the films just as much as Gaby does, battle scenes and monsters might not be something Illya needs right now. Before he can speak up, he sees Illya shrug, followed by a nod, having recognized the words. Napoleon asks him again just to be sure, which earns him a small glare and a second nod.

With a suppressed sigh, Napoleon walks over to his shelf and gets the Blu-Ray. The case looks a little worn, but it’s no wonder.

Napoleon settles on Illya’s other side after he’s done fiddling with the player and the TV. The music sets in while the menu comes into view. Out of the corner of the eye, he sees Illya’s brows lift in interest. Gaby gets up to dim the lights as Napoleon selects the subtitles. He glances over to Illya.

“Remember, we can stop anytime.”

Illya nods absently, still watching the screen intently, although there’s only a portrait of Sam and Frodo next to the language selection.

They wait for Gaby to settle again, before Napoleon presses play.

Gaby’s voice is barely a whisper over the black opening screen.

“You’re going to love this.”

Napoleon whispers the translation as well, just to humor her.

He shouldn’t have worried. He doesn’t know if it’s because they planned this in advance or because Middle Earth is too different from their world, but Illya is absolutely captivated after barely five minutes, eyes huge and lips slightly parted, no sign of nervousness or discomfort on any level. Napoleon doesn’t even dare to put the movie on pause when their pizza is delivered. Illya accepts a few slices Napoleon practically drops directly into his lap, eating them without taking his eyes off the screen. He’s never eaten more food in one go, even accepting some of the snacks when Gaby passes them over him to Napoleon.

It’s hard for Napoleon to fully relax, his eyes shifting to Illya at every clang of swords and shout, but the teen seems more than content.

The movie is over quicker than Napoleon thought, although he put on the extended version. As the credits start to roll, Napoleon gets up to turn the lights back on properly.

Illya’s eyes are still a little wide as he blinks against the brightness.

Gaby stretches her back, pulling her arms over her head and turning to Illya.

“So? What do you say?”

Illya has the pen in his hand even before Napoleon finishes translating. Although he already knows what Illya’s going to say, he looks at his message first.

“Unsurprisingly, he liked it.”

Gaby chuckles. “I think that already decides our to-watch list.”

Napoleon turns to Illya. “I guess you would be alright if we watched the other parts in the next weeks?”

The nod he gets from Illya is almost eager, his eyes gleaming at the prospect. If Napoleon had known, that all it takes to get Illya out of his shell is a bunch of Hobbits, he would have done this earlier.

They chat a little and finish off the last slices of pizza. Illya only uses the notebook twice and just listens for the rest, but it’s still enormous progress in Napoleon’s eyes.

Gaby leaves them around midnight, when Illya’s eyes keep falling shut. The teen waves at her awkwardly, before she leaves the apartment, and vanishes into the bedroom only a few minutes later, after giving Napoleon an equally awkward wave.

Alone, Napoleon surveys the state of the living room. It takes about twenty minutes to tidy everything up and make his bed on the couch, but he doesn’t mind, even when his knee starts to protest painfully. All this was worth it.

The next morning, Illya surprisingly joins him for breakfast and for the first time, he doesn’t look dead on his feet.

Napoleon chats about the movie, a little bit about what was going on behind the scenes, which parts they cut from the book. Illya actually looks like he’s interested, perking up even more at the mention of the book.

Of course he does. Napoleon should have mentioned them earlier. “The movies are based on a book trilogy. I have them here, but only in English. I can order them for you in Russian though, if you want to.”

Illya shakes his head firmly. Napoleon should have seen that coming.

“Well, it’s in the shelf left of the TV, but suppose the English version won’t do much for you. And the language is pretty old, so not really easy reading to begin with.”

The teen nods, but there’s something in his eyes, the way his jaw is set, that makes Napoleon curious.

He shouldn’t be surprised, when he finds the book and his dictionary missing before noon. Illya stays holed up in the bedroom for the rest of the day, but this time Napoleon is not worried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for light alcohol abuse, food issues, sleeping issues... this chapter is a lot lighter than the last one, but tell me if I missed something.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://deducitetemporacarmen.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
